He says, I, I am unable to make response.
Its tongue is torn into ten places. Against the bodily frame, mortality by figures, whichever the sooner. She tries not to think of futures (we've a number of examples of salvage closing down). She's seen extremes too hard to haul, while he is very measure. There's no speech. He plays on long into his defeat, and she says, do you think there's an afterlung? He comes to dawn. I wish I'd been there, to see it through, though doubtless he would have proved the obverse. His base being narrower than the apex, he is presented to view: a counterpart in opposite aspect.
I should have been headless—but the head would cave in and come back to itself, start all over again. I don't want to know the story of these songs: a forked twig, a memory at risk, the helpless boundary of his hand. He cuts himself off with his dirty knife, and that's it. He's later found hid behind, towards the stern of the vessel.


Febrile young men sip at bittersweet kava. Wall-to-wall terror.
Open sememe . . .
Style is probably an accident. Perhaps we should have brought each other something to show, rather than render the outcome more complicated than it needs to be. We should be enjoying each other's medium—we're not doing anthropology here. Steer clear, somewhere high over the rain, way up high with the tenor of his voice to feed upon a pecking liver. Closer the memory bone, and there's a run on the confessional. He has the unsettling yet welcome premonition that one day he'll have to stand up and be counted. A fresh rope is woven. For him, everything loses solid appearance. How else could anything be relinquished by the interior? If you stick it out long enough, everyone else will fade to leave you shed visible.
She's got the alphabetizers in, this means starburst, roadkill, at the closure of a massive continuum. And today's recall: white stars, where metallic lines strengthen, hydrogen lines weaken, based on their spectra.

Street cleaning back then was unknown: severed bone, sinew, veins, subcutaneous fat. I remember struggling on up to my shin shanks. That time was a bad time for everyone, he with his personata, me with my oboe.

The process occurs around a turning-point, within its incontestable mile. They're all left standing. This is his farewell game. He wears a kind of silken stuff. He's a happening waiting to accident; sound is trapped at the dilated end of a semicircular canal in his ear. His outer membrane resembles pollen, or spore . . . trawling trade and historical. Footplate memories of the Settle-Carlisle. He says a goy founded wallpaper, a criminal gamete. Something like that, of foreshadowing import. The trick is to corral our peculiarities.

Today I'm busied making a new art of the faculty, and for no other reason than it grants a result. The other entries lip by, the whole bad stock of individuals. I refuse to have my own skin sliced in that way, and that's that. Besides him, they have no protector. Dust splits the foe in two, one above the other, placing in them the moon. It's my misanthrope, played out on tupperware and cucumbers. Here comes chanting matter, thrown. But people don't say so. Sometimes it will hurt in the process. We resort to zonal man-marking; I thought I was going to die. Well yes, and it will all look mighty superstitious, nether form set antiphonic to bell, waste work in a vibrating fork of time.

I don't know what that wall's doing here.

He finds himself alone and quietly taking his dinner, anomalous, yet obviously reassembled with loving care. I'm cased in my own theme by the narrowness of his experience. I just made my own dull up, and now turn to other crimes. I start like an alarmed bird—suggested by fly and flutter and rush. I bare a name given to various speedwells, with influence above. In a harbourside warehouse, spangles of the same light shed themselves across the whole sphere. Blue-flowered, posterior sepal wanting, flower calyx, with transformation of outer members.


He is still busy pecking at his liver.
Because I gave not we are of wormwood, with error frequency at the end of an enemy interlude (one lifetime). No, you don't want to do that, and I've told you why. This is a favourable location for billets inhabited by the sound of bell; the melancholy reach of children is samewise dwelt. I'm inventing my own reverse: stay with whatever comes through. So when is a blooming lodge, held between vast point, with impartial screaming.

Swung either side of the hyphen, I obtain a purchase on the bow of the key, and turn its wards from left to right. An aperture for free egress and ingress flips open. Hard move on this stuff, before they are killing more. Hard move to the death.

We start to walk towards the station, within the stricture of a straight line.


The spanker and the driver in moleskin! How can I expect them to withstand if I don't enter, stubbornly refuse to ply tongue? Bring me the reader's head. This means you are definitely going to lose. Fear comes full circle: win the day of a lifetime. It's over a metre wide, and it's the same depth as the last. His ears are going too fast. He's too good to throw awry at this precise moment.
She says, the more densely packed the particles, the further the sound travels. The working parts are called ultrasounds, vibrations in an elastic medium. She has no spectral class; she is everywhere. What an old face—bluegrey eyes, hessian tongue. This phenomenon collides with the somatic mode. In the perfect eye, all the refractive surfaces are spherical. It's not my job to lead a life. It's not my job, prizing forth, breathless for want.

They lead lives of quiet separation, in a chaperoned corpsebox, with supernal song.

But, to start making my own decisions.
He can't yet lift himself above the mass of appearances, the seemingly infinite neighbours, and other stuff of wanting calibre. The skin slips, caused by too much of his old trauma. Beyond the bounds, he has his own performative realization of the material under study. A team bypass is needed: anthems, glees, etcetera benighted.
As we speak, a substitution.

Last Man Standing

Higher, gripping the square pillar, then the sleep—unable to risk a move to the booth above time. It's not always what you actually want at any given instant.

Low white autumn star with green bands of green dazzle. The doors close in one by one, onto the spent waves of a forgotten, artless with thought. It was like playing to concrete, or stubborn rosewood with its dark-coloured beak, crumbling bark of many trees and salt of platinum, the snow outside, the indifferent mountains. It was all too late, but it was only marginally too late. I couldn't keep it in for the first time ever: misheard utterance, the languor and fever rising too soon. Listlessness, torpor, acedia, in a dank courtyard.
Be cautious.
He remembers, dreams he is, and is hanged there, replaced by a misspent word in over-wide but shallow waters. I'm sometimes subject to it these days myself. He manoeuvres himself twist out toward zodiacal sign, cranked beneath the remnants of an old old bridge. The only way to reach the beach is to go through, cut down mercurial. Dancers give their stomachs, atom eye in the air, atom in the lung, silver beech behind its shadow-full. Sometimes the windows are left open for days and the light. Perhaps it isn't worth getting steamed up over all this. Back when and he would say things like, airborne paving slabs . . . a caged penitent, canned liver in the grip of his paw. One for whom each movement is the sudden breaking open of a circle. It's because of the air inside. The eyes have it, the eyes have it, though in some sense they're wrong to do so. In space, the devotional, with panic furnace.

I want guarantees for chance. I was wanted, wanting. Above, the decussating X, below, a zinc table top, refracting light from the nearest star. A disc is held still before the beams, holed below the waterline—it phrases and helps form the impression, so to speak. That which just the same escapes, arranged in pairs which cross each other like the cargo of leaves.


He says, I can't erode myself to an allegory of other people's expectation. You know what they say, don't you: you'll end up in the wrong trial.
He stands humble before the information. Some words he expects to come up again and again in time, but they won't. Consequently, drinking postures have been postponed. The cube is squared, a square squared and circled. The outcome is a place of abode, a dwelling, leading astray—somewhere reached by building descants.

Two horses feed on the bark of a tree, a tranquillizer, which nonetheless induces a feeling of ill-being. They're preparing themselves for combat. Largesse, largesse, holds up well, atones, though you take flight evermore . . .

This character's cool infallibility begins to grate. He's lifted up by reflux of the sea. If this isn't done right all the oxygen will pump out. Then we'll need an architect's plan. And I've already done my close assigned, with a little pathos, with a little defiance.
Place/space pops out, yesss, pops out.
And the measurement of individual differences: once or twice we went over the digits, with segmental fingers. The centre turns out to be below the springing. The latest stuff is in things, the terrible privacy of dreams. Blow up, blow out, up and out, in the dying embers of this game at the Britannia.
Carefully exploding.


It's in the quality of sleep that you'll find him. Time comes with its audacity complete, with a deafening uproar, driving ghosts into effigies, lead-clad mummers spilling into the streets. She never expected this. She reaches the point where nothing matters, and is prepared to say as much: leave this page behind.
She is wareless of you. She belongs to a dark, longheaded race. You know what happens: half an hour or less. How she keeps time, the executioner, yet is never hoisted upon her own petard (a case on wheels containing explosives used for blowing in doors, a mobile work of fire).
Move, cut. She comes around, axe-calm, with sledgehammer alert. I can't help but recall her craving for unsuitable food (smoked almonds).

I, I did not want to move across to here from there. Repeat senescence, rebuilt in my disuse, my interwar. He sits poised in his hair-period piece and shaved clothes, but she never had the pluck to take on death in her own lifetime. On the contrary, she comes with astonishing optimisms, a tissue leeching out over a spread year of totalities. Her ghosts swing into effigies.


My old habit of lapsing into crime has relapsed. That, and rising late to chilled wine and almonds. As soon as there's any hint of clear and present danger, I'm off, fading into the sweet by and by. It's a diversion, a reclamation—a fog, so much chicken soup> Everything turns round him, perplexed in his compartments. He is always crashing through himself. A lot of people would die for a hook like that. A lot of people have lost an awful lot, and that includes things that were never there in the first place, with earth dug out of trenches, on either flank an army.

It goes like that and it's like that—the duties of a particular moment, beautifully sorted and returned. He says, I think you're really good for me. She says, find something of your own to do—contests, struggle—and look, there he goes in his coat length coat. I couldn't help noticing the smile, the words, together they were so sweet. Don't worry, everything's under control.


He writes of a rising hill up from the unbroke sea, Christ nailed high at Golgotha. Elsewhere he writes glagolgotha, a word, you see, inventing and inviting (glagol is verb and Golgotha cranium). This isn't sophistry, it's just what happens. He feels the writing is going somewhere he no longer needs to follow. No gap, but the sense is incomplete, swung either side of a hyphen. Therefore it's gathered, like a deluge controverse: the glance, passing through, nothing but grief when leaving the stage.
When and where is the start spot.
All three words meaning skull.


An older test century. I can't think of it as a space to colonize, with emblems of the new chivalry suspended down a well at the end of a rope. On to the end of a chapter, throughout. Separate the last two. Cleave them. Clearly he's a man of second-rate genius: the dice, the sponge, the hammer, the sign.
Because I never do.

We three meet, and a stranger meet was never had on that stranger shore. I went to sleep in the mud up to my ears. Earth is dug out of trenches on either side. A medium rocks on a pivot at the back of his cave, limbering up for the confrontation of several lifetimes. His human ancestry, manes, are the purist element in him. He's going overboard, the severed ghost of a dead one. Splinters of broken bone and weapons lie scattered across the battle-earth. They think alike. I never think things are very good at these early stages, but we'll wait and see what leaks out (I've done this before). You can imagine. It may be that play is needed as a watchword, the questioning that arises in failure, the allure of failure.


I forgot to ask for the money. Now a volunteer has to put her back inside the cabinet. She's in touch with something, is quite derailed; she's wearing one of them right now. I'm just fitting into the comfortable niches, cheap machines full of chapter sound, slow morsels of noise. Have they put him back on cash. Secreted every day in your name, the touch, to soften the hardening why. She examines every mouthful. Dive in yourself for commission. They fly away, safe at last in their unsaid. Remove all his edges first.
Now place him.

The other makes unjust use of the memory bone: with a roof like a paper dart in the northernmost quarter, and small heart at the base of his drained cup> Was this a warning. A rupture, for reason. The advocate enters, goes over to the blind and whispers.
Why did the medium cross the road—


It's still easy enough to get work. I leave myself a random hour. It's exactly the same distance. This is said with a slight whistle in her tongue. They are taking their twenty percent. He has never eaten a meal that was undramatic, the piecemeal work of an obsessive nature, a type of writing note on note, using the differentiations and inversions of a single chord. On the way he crosses smoke bearing the words, Miracle Centre. A woman boards with similes, poignant magics, elbows pitched in the posture—
No one come, no no no, no one come, no one come—stay up!
And again in van of self removal, the favoured route. They're still taking their twenty percent. From the blind side, one out on runners comes to crush. You had to place a reason, and why. Over the portico flares across these grainy stills an injury. Every day you had to put a reason, and why. Clock off.

She looks troubled and gnaws at her knuckle. From the blind side, out.
Avoiding just intention. No clouds, please—he is beset at his Soutine window.


Is that the chimp side of him. A sullen downpour. I travel with fruit, an orange. But at the same time they don't seem to remember much (I list them: there are twenty-five). I can't keep the appointment; I am gram-negative and rodlike. No, I watched her eyes as she opened the box with a pair of bloody scissors, the gift. Now we've enough for a whole requiem. The equalization switch should be set at normal to compose a lament for an anonymous, or, if you prefer, a plaint, jeremiad, knell, threnody, elegy, epicedium, swansong, obsequy, keen, coronach, howl, shriek, or de profundis. He calls to say he's just seen an accident in front of his eyes. Now leave me alone. He starts screaming his head off.
Yes, but can he hold a tune.
It upsets the all sense of unsense.

I don't know whether I'm betraying a confidence here, but the evidence is insufficient. She was very being genuine, for she could complain, could she not, if she were gripped to, and has not ceased to seek from the moment of her being throat, to seek out the massive timbers that can support his double hull. What's that flapping and banging without.
Exempt this time. She wastes, until everyone's relaxed, then whips the cloak from her head and bellows a long speech with eyebrows. Remember this: what's all the fuss about. Who moved that jug. And he was like a Blake, at speech in his anthems. And the tune appears to hold him.

I think it's batch.
He with his anthems out, one eye on the clock.